


Personal Demons

by lithos_saeculum



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Also a love story, But a very creepy one, Horror, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Noct is an incubus, Prompto is human, Stalking, Very creepy behaviour, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-06-09 23:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15278484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lithos_saeculum/pseuds/lithos_saeculum
Summary: Noctis Lucis Caelum, incubus and prince of Insomnia's daemon underworld, sees humans as barely more than livestock, useful only as a source of food. Then he meets Prompto Argentum, and everything starts to spin out of control.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP I've been working on sporadically over on FFA for some time, but I'm feeling kind of inspired with it right now, so thought I'd put what I've got so far up here, too. Thanks to the FFA nonnies for your encouragement while I was writing this!
> 
> For those who've read any of my other stuff, be warned: this one is really not fluffy. Noct is very much a demon who feeds on people's energy until they die. If you don't want to see that, please backclick now...

Night is falling on the city of Insomnia, and Noctis Lucis Caelum is hungry. 

The hunger is always worst in the early hours of the night, when the sky is still shading from blue into black and there are only a few faint stars, scattered across the sky like a handful of pearls. It comes on like a knife, a few days after he takes the last, sweet taste of a fading life. That taste, the taste of life as it slips away, is like nothing else. But the first taste of a new consort is special, too, each one different from the last. Noct looks forward to it every time, even with the sweetness of death still on his tongue. He’s looking forward to it now. 

He slips on his jacket and turns up the collar, eyeing himself in the mirror. He looks pale; that’s not a problem. Some people like that. Enough people that he’s never found it difficult to obtain companionship.

“You look pale,” Ignis says, passing behind him and pausing to catch his eyes in the mirror. “When did you last eat?” As if he doesn’t have it marked on his calendar, with a _days since_ app lighting up each day in green, then yellow, then red. 

“I’m going out,” Noct says. 

Ignis nods. “Be careful, Highness,” he says. 

“Always am,” Noct says, and smiles to himself. All these years, and Ignis still says the same thing to him every time. He hasn’t accidentally lost himself since he was a child. He has a handle on himself now. He knows what he’s doing. 

He slips out of the door into the night. 

~

Insomnia is a city of many possibilities, where you can come from nothing and make a glorious future for yourself, or you can be born in luxury and end your days in the gutter. It sprawls across the land, filling with light and life and noise, and every human in the city, from the king in his great citadel to the homeless children on the street, thinks the wall of magic keeps daemons out. There are many ways to die in Insomnia, but its human sons and daughters think that they, at least, have escaped that one. 

If they knew about the creatures that walk among them, that have human faces but hearts that belong to another race entirely, perhaps they wouldn’t be quite so complacent. But they venture out after dark quite happily, frightened only of the damage that other humans can do, while those in the hinterlands cower in their homes once the sun has set. Insomnia is good hunting grounds, for those who can stay hidden. And Noct’s very practiced at hiding. 

He sets his sights on a new bar. He’s rotated through all the old ones too recently to allow himself to go to any of them again tonight. But one of the many advantages of Insomnia is its enormous size, its endless sleazy underbelly that offers itself up without resistance to Noct’s teeth. It’s a long trip, walking the street because the lights of the subway make him nauseated, and because he doesn’t feel like letting Gladio drive him tonight. But he likes to walk. He likes the way it sharpens his hunger. 

He slips through the door of the bar about half an hour after midnight. He buys a drink and stands, leaning back against the bar, surveying the scene. It’s busy, but not too busy. Some meatheads are playing pool in one corner. Two women look like they might be about to come to blows. There are plenty of people here, but there’s no-one _interesting_. 

He drinks, and waits. This is his rule: if he finishes his second drink, and hasn’t yet marked a target, he moves on. So he drinks. And he waits. 

He’s almost to the end of his second drink when the two women suddenly erupt into violence. There’s an instant uproar: some trying to pull them apart, some trying to egg them on. Noct sighs and drains his drink. Then someone steps through the door of the bar, straight into the knot of brawling drunks. The someone immediately trips over an outstretched leg, catches a blow meant for someone else, and stumbles headlong across the room, landing heavily against the bar. Noct turns to go and then catches –

– a scent – 

–and stops. He stops and breathes in. He turns and breathes in. The newcomer is sitting on the ground in a heap of limbs. He looks dazed. His hair is the colour of the sun Noct rarely sees. His face looks pale. And he smells – delicious. 

Noct leans down. “You all right?” he asks, extending a hand. 

The newcomer looks up at him. He seems a little dazed. 

“Uh – oh, thanks,” he says. He takes Noct’s hand and Noct feels a tingle against his skin. He helps the newcomer to his feet and then puts a hand on his shoulder, the edge of his palm touching the newcomer’s bare neck. The tingle grows into a buzz, a delicious promise. He holds the newcomer’s eyes and smiles. 

“Rowdy in here tonight,” he says. “You OK?” 

“...yeah,” the newcomer says. He’s staring at Noct, and now he looks even more dazed. “Uh, I–” He rubs the back of his head. “Guess I came in at the wrong moment, huh.” He smiles ruefully.

The fight is dying down, now, both women outside somewhere in the night. Noct shrugs. It seems to him that the newcomer came in at exactly the right moment. He turns and signals the barman.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says. 

~

The human’s name is Prompto, Noct learns. He learns very little else about the human, at least as far as what passes for his personality goes. Not that Prompto is in any way reserved about himself; in fact, he seems quite happy to talk, and to keep talking, requiring very little encouragement from Noct other than the occasional noise of agreement or acknowledgement. But Noct isn’t interested in the human’s personality. He knows perfectly well that humans are like dogs: they may seem like there’s some intelligence there, but ultimately they’re barely even sentient. Just enough thought in their heads to notice his seduction; never enough to resist it. 

A shame, really. Some of them are so pretty. 

So: Noct learns that the human’s name is Prompto, and that Prompto likes to talk, in a bubbling, chattering sort of way, like a stream of water running over rocks. But he pays very little attention to Prompto’s mind beyond that. What he pays attention to is Prompto’s scent. Prompto’s skin, smooth and soft and an unusual shade, so pale that his eyelids seem red with blood. Prompto’s hair, that catches the light even in the gloom of the bar. Prompto’s neck, where the skin’s so pale he can see Prompto’s heart beating in his veins. 

Prompto. When the human first said it, Noct thought it sounded ridiculous, but after only half an hour in his company, he thinks it sounds like heaven. 

“So, uh – yeah, I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I need to save up, you know? I’ve, uh–” 

There’s a pause in the babbling river of words. Prompto’s looking at him, cheeks flushed. The alcohol, perhaps. Or something else. 

“Noct?” he says, and then, “Uh, is it OK if I call you Noct?” 

Noct smiles. He allows his tongue to dart out and wet his lips before he speaks. “Of course,” he says. 

The flush deepens on Prompto’s face. It makes him look younger. Noct wonders how old he is, and is surprised at himself. Why should he care about a human’s age, any more than he would the age of a cow or a goat?

“You’re, uh – staring,” Prompto says, his voice faint. “Do I – have – something on my face?” 

Noct leans forward, reaching out. He brushes his thumb across Prompto’s cheek and feels the tingling jolt. 

“Only the sexiest freckles I’ve ever seen,” he says, deepening his voice into a purr. He has a lot of experience with this, and he’s quite sure he doesn’t need to be subtle around Prompto.

Prompto’s eyes widen, and he makes a sort of squeaking noise that is not sexy in the least. It doesn’t matter to Noct. What matters is that his words hit their mark. And what matters is that he has no patience for the long game right now. His hunger is ferocious, worse than he’s felt for years. He needs Prompto, as soon as possible. 

He leans further forward, putting his mouth to Prompto’s ear. 

“What do you say we go somewhere more comfortable?” he murmurs. 

Prompto makes another strange and decidedly unattractive noise, and lurches to his feet so fast that Noct has to pull back sharply to avoid getting a shoulder in the face. “Uh–” Prompto says, looking a little wild-eyed. “Now? I mean – yes – yeah, totally – more comfortable! Yes, good idea!” 

Noct finds himself a little taken aback, which hasn’t happened to him during a seduction in quite some time. Prompto is responding with the appropriate words, but his manner is – not what Noct is used to at all. It’s the opposite of seductive. In amongst the aching hunger, Noct feels – almost bewildered. 

But in the end, Prompto’s manner is unimportant. Noct rises to his feet in a smooth movement and takes Prompto’s arm. The arm is unclothed, and the feel of Prompto’s skin against his palm sets the hunger roaring in Noct’s belly. He pulls Prompto towards the door, perhaps a little faster than he knows is appropriate for the game he’s playing. Desperation is not attractive on anyone. 

But Prompto doesn’t seem to mind. He follows Noct willingly enough, even eagerly. He required even less seduction than Noct had imagined. And Noct knows that he should be being more careful, more deliberate, to make sure that he sets up the longer game now. But he doesn’t do that. Because Noct’s skin feels like it’s burning. Because Noct’s mind is swimming with the sweetness of Prompto’s scent. Because, whether it’s attractive or not, Noct is suddenly desperate. 

The night air is like a blessed relief after the stuffy heat of the bar, and Noct starts pulling Prompto towards the hotel that rents by the hour that he bookmarked on his phone earlier. It’s two blocks away, though, and by the time they get to the corner, Noct finds he can’t wait any more. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear a voice that sounds like Ignis, telling him not to do what he’s doing right now. But Noct has a lifetime’s experience of ignoring Ignis, and he puts it to good use now, dragging Prompto into an alley beside a broken-down old laundromat. He strides as far down the alley as needed to get out of the light of the streetlamps on the main street, and then turns, grabs Prompto by the shoulders, and shoves him against the wall. 

“Ah!” Prompto says. “Uh, is this–?”

“Sh,” Noct whispers. He presses himself against Prompto, trying to get as much bare skin contact as possible – shoving up Prompto’s shirt, sending up a prayer of thanks for his bare arms, pressing his face, his lips, into the place where Prompto’s neck meets his shoulder. He can feel Prompto’s erection pressing against his hip, and he pushes his thigh between Prompto’s legs and grinds upwards. 

He’s rewarded by an intensification of Prompto’s sweet scent, the change in it sending a jolt through him that makes him sigh and groan. Prompto makes a high-pitched moaning sound.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Is this really happening?” 

“Shhhh,” Noct murmurs into his shoulder. He slides a hand up under his shirt, pressing his palm flat over Prompto’s heart, feeling the energy that slides into him even from that simple contact. Prompto is – Prompto is – 

He lifts his head and presses his lips to Prompto’s. He feels that heartbeat speed up, the energy pulsing under his fingers. He feels the tension in Prompto neck, in his lips, and he knows he should – set up the long game, go slow, play at romance. But instead, he pushes his tongue into Prompto’s mouth, crushes their lips together hard. He wants as much of Prompto as he can have, as quickly as possible. He wants to absorb all of Prompto into himself. He wants – he wants – there’s nothing else to him but desire. 

And Prompto responds. Not that Noct cares much whether he does or not – he’s past caring about very much of anything now except his desperate need to take in as much of the rich, bright energy flowing from Prompto as he can. But he’s aware that Prompto opens his mouth wider, that he puts his arms around Noct, that he kisses back. He’s aware of a bright, pulsing hand on the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. He’s aware of everything Prompto’s doing, as if Prompto were part of himself. 

And he’s aware when those fingers slacken, those lips soften. He’s aware when Prompto’s tongue stops probing. He’s aware when Prompto’s hand falls from his neck. But he’s not thinking about it. He’s only thinking about the warmth that’s enveloping him, that’s sating his hunger. He’s not thinking about Prompto, about what it all means, until Prompto suddenly slumps sideways, and it’s all Noct can do not to let him drop to the concrete floor of the alley. As it is, the unexpected weight has Noct stumbling, falling to his knees in slow motion, with Prompto in his arms.

Noct pulls back, licking his lips. His head is swimming. He feels – amazing. 

And Prompto’s limp in his arms, head lolling. His skin was pale before, but now it’s chalk white, his freckles standing out dark on his cheeks and nose. His eyelids look bluish. His mouth hangs open.

Noct swallows. The voice in his head that sounds like Ignis becomes much clearer, much louder.

_Whatever you do, do not kill a human immediately_ , the voice says, the lessons from when Noct was younger and less restrained resonating in his mind as if it had all happened yesterday. _Do not kill a human within a few days of having been seen with them in public. Plan. Strategise. Spread out your feeding. A human in your grasp is a valuable resource. Don’t waste it. And it goes without saying, do not do anything that will bring attention to you or your family._

_Do not do anything that will bring attention to you or your family_. Like walking out of a bar with a human and killing him in a neighbouring alleyway half an hour later. 

“No,” Noct whispers. He feels – strange. He feels like the blood is singing in his veins, like every part of him is shot through with light and warmth. And he feels terrified, vulnerable like he hasn’t been in years. He’s done something so stupid, so stupid. Something that could have terrible consequences for him, and for everyone he cares about. And – 

– and – 

– and he destroyed Prompto. He was so sure he knew his limits, sure of his self-control. And now he’s destroyed something so beautiful, without even meaning to. He blinks, and is horrified to realise that his eyes are filled with tears. 

He lets go of Prompto, and Prompto slumps onto the alley floor. Noct takes him by the shoulder and shakes him, aware even as he does so of the childishness of the gesture. 

“Wake up,” he says. “No, no. Wake up.” 

But Prompto doesn’t wake up. And Noct hears a siren in the distance. A siren that can’t be anything to do with this – how could it be, so soon after it happened? – but a siren, nonetheless. He jumps to his feet, heart hammering, feeling simultaneously like he could walk on air and like he wants to sink under the ground. Prompto lies white and crumpled at his feet, and Noct shakes his head and dashes the tears from his eyes.

“It’s only a human,” he mutters to himself. 

Then he turns and runs. 

~  
Noct slinks into the Family Seat at five a.m. He’s been walking – up on the rooftops, mostly – looking at the moon and trying not to think too much. There’s constant dread in his mind, but his body feels – extraordinary. More than once he had to stop himself from stepping off a roof, just to see what it would be like to walk on air. Some part of him was sure he could. Some part of him that was way too big, and too insistent.

He feels afraid. And he feels exalted. 

He was hoping he’d be able to get to bed without seeing anyone. Ignis is usually out at this time, collecting supplies. But he’s out of luck: Gladio’s lounging in the main hall, picking his teeth, feet up on an antique end-table. 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Gladio says. 

He ignores Gladio, heading for the stairs. Somehow, his aim is off. He finds himself walking towards the left-hand railing. He corrects his course, and then Gladio’s standing beside him, grabbing his arm.

“Hey,” Gladio says. “What’s wrong with you?” 

He looks up at Gladio, and Gladio sucks in a breath. 

“Holy hell,” he says. “You’re flying. What are you, high?” 

He tries to shake Gladio off, with no success. “I’m fine,” he says. His voice sounds strange, deeper than usual. “I’m just tired.” 

“Yeah, I definitely believe that,” Gladio says. He shakes his head. “What the hell happened? You eat someone who was tweaking, or – would that even do this?” 

He scrubs a hand over his eyes. He wonders what it is Gladio sees. He feels wired. Sparkling. Terrified. 

“Just some guy in a bar,” he says. “And you know it doesn’t work like that. I’m just tired.”

He shoves Gladio off and heads up the stairs. He knows Gladio’s going to tell Ignis that something weird happened. And then Ignis is going to want to know what.

He doesn’t know what. He doesn’t know what happened. He hasn’t lost control like that ever, or at least, not since he was a kid. 

He’s never met anyone who tasted like Prompto. 

He sits on the bed. He’s not going to sleep. He can’t imagine sleeping ever again. He feels like there are stars living inside him, light coming ot of every pore in his body. It’s been hours, and he still feels amazing. 

What was Prompto? How did Prompto do this to him?

Whatever he was, Noct killed him.

He puts his head in his hands. 

Just a human. Just a human. But nothing like any human Noct’s ever eaten before. 

What has he done?

~

He sneaks out at ten a.m. Everyone else is sleeping. Noct would normally be sleeping, too. He pretended to be asleep when Ignis came back, so there wouldn’t be any questions – not yet, anyway. Noct slips along the streets, staying in the shadow of the buildings as much as possible. It’s a cloudy day, but even so, even with his shades on, the light isn’t very pleasant. 

He goes to the nearest newspaper vendor and buys a copy of each of the Insomnia morning papers. He takes them to a bench in the park, deep in the shadow of a grove of trees, and flips through each one, reading every headline carefully. There’s nothing about a young man found dead in an alley without a mark on him. Is that the kind of thing that would even make the news in Insomnia? He’s not sure. He can’t be sure. But – is it possible he didn’t kill Prompto? He looked dead, that’s for sure. He looked so pale. But Noct didn’t check. He was scared, and he was flying. He never checked Prompto’s pulse. 

He swallows, a fluttering hope in his chest. He pulls out his phone. Then he stops. He puts it back in his pocket. 

He catches the subway across town, to a district he’s never visited before. He finds a shady phone store and buys a burner. Then he looks up the number of the hospital nearest the bar where he met Prompto. 

He dials.

“Hello?” he says, when someone answers at the other end. His voice still sounds strange. “I’m – uh – trying to find my brother. He didn’t come home last night and no-one’s heard from him. His name’s Prompto.” 

“Last name?” the woman at the other end asks. 

Shit. What was Prompto’s last name? He should have paid more attention, should have paid _some_ attention to something other than how sweet he smelled.

“A – Argentum,” he says, after pausing for far too long, the name coming to him with a flash of Prompto’s face, Prompto’s smile as he says it. 

A pause. “No-one of that name here,” the woman says. 

“You didn’t get an – unidentified young guy?” Noct asks. “Unconscious, maybe? Blond, in his early twenties.” 

“No, sir,” the woman says. She sounds suspicious. “Can I ask–” 

Noct hangs up.

He calls the next nearest hospital. No Prompto. But at the third hospital he calls, something different happens.

“Argentum?” the clerk says. “Yeah, we had him. He’s checked out now. That’s all I can tell you.” 

Noct feels the flutter of hope in his chest turn into a surge. “He’s all right?” he says. “He’s alive?” 

“Alive, definitely,” the man says. “I can’t tell you anything else.” He pauses. “But – call him, all right? Call your brother. Just to make sure.” 

“I will,” Noct says. “Thank you.” 

He ends the call and stares at the phone. Then he stands up. His head spins. He reaches out, grabbing the back of the bench. 

He didn’t kill Prompto. 

But that means Prompto’s alive. Prompto could identify him. 

Identify him as doing what? He didn’t do anything. He didn’t kill anyone. 

Prompto’s alive. 

And even though he knows very clearly that he should be grateful for whatever luck he had that stopped him from taking the last of what Prompto had to give, should chalk this one up to experience and do his level best never, ever to run into Prompto again, he stands, holding onto the bench and thinking. Thinking _how can I find him?_ He knows he should never see Prompto again. Should never touch him again.

But it’s all he wants to do. 

~

Finding Prompto isn’t easy. All Noct has is a name, and the fact that he was at one specific bar on one specific day. Noct didn’t even get his number. If he’s honest with himself, he behaved like a rookie the entire night, barely in control, not taking obvious steps. Because – there’s something about Prompto.

Prompto. Prompto Prompto Prompto.

It’s not an uncommon name. Neither is Argentum. Insomnia’s not a small city, and there are twenty-three Prompto Argentums listed in the usual sources. If, for whatever reason, Noct’s Prompto is not listed, life is going to get even more complicated. 

By the time he gets back to the Family Seat after discovering that Prompto Argentum is not dead, he’s already made a list of every Prompto Argentum the internet can deliver. He’s rejected five of these based on public information about age and appearance. But people are more careful with their privacy settings these days. There are still eighteen Prompto Argentums about whom he has only the barest information. Still, he’s methodical. He’s careful. He wants to succeed. 

Ignis would be proud.

Except when he arrives at the Family Seat, Ignis is waiting for him. And Ignis doesn’t seem particularly proud.

“You went out,” Ignis says, rising from the chair where he’s been waiting in the lobby. It’s two p.m. Ignis should be asleep. So should Noct.

“Yeah,” Noct says. “Couldn’t sleep.” He tries to brush past Ignis, but Ignis doesn’t let him.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon,” Ignis says. He sounds angry. Or worried. Or both. 

Noct shrugs. “It’s cloudy. I was fine.” 

Ignis takes his arm. “Gladio told me you were – in some kind of altered state last night.” 

Normally, he would find it funny – _altered state_ , what an Ignis way to describe _high as fuck_ – but he doesn’t today. He remembers that altered state. How altered it was. It makes his mouth dry. 

“Gladio’s exaggerating,” he says. He pulls away. He’s finally tired. He feels suddenly like he could sleep for a week. 

“Noct!” Ignis calls after him.

But he doesn’t answer.

~

He sleeps. He sleeps through the rest of the day, and half the night. When he wakes up, he feels – rejuvenated. He always feels something of that, after feeding. But just something, a bare echo of how he feels now. He’s not sure he’s ever felt as refreshed as he does now. 

It’s four in the morning, too late to go out looking for Prompto – any Prompto. So he plays video games until the sun comes up, and then sleeps again. Ignis looks in on him, sighs, and says nothing. He expected a lecture about responsible behaviour; perhaps Ignis is more worried than he realised.

Just after sunset, he goes out. He doesn’t need to eat again – wouldn’t yet even if his feeding the night before had been of normal quality, which it certainly was not. But he does need to find Prompto.

He needs to find Prompto.

And so: he searches. The first places he visits are the addresses of the Prompto Argentums whose addresses are listed. Many live in high-rise blocks, and his climbing skills get a work-out. It’s the time of day when lights are on and blinds are not yet shut. He peers through windows and waits across from doors. He finds elderly widowers and fathers with small children and young men with dark hair and one babe in arms. One by one, he checks them off his list. 

It takes a long time. Three nights. Normally, if he went for three nights without feeding – plus the one where he didn’t go out at all – he’d be hungry. Not ravenous yet, but definitely ready to eat. And he is – he feels the empty feeling inside. But it’s not like usual. It’s like a vague niggling at him, rather than the main issue occupying his thoughts. The main issue is something else.

Prompto Argentum. Prompto. 

Sometimes, he considers what Ignis would think if he knew what he was doing. Most of the time, he doesn’t even think about it. He’s aware, somewhere in the same place where he’s hungry, that what he’s doing is inadvisable. It’s dangerous. It’s extremely stupid. But, like the hunger, it seems irrelevant. The idea of _not_ doing what he’s doing seems absurd. The idea of satisfying his hunger with something else – someone else – is almost repulsive. He will have to eventually, if he doesn’t find Prompto.

He needs to find Prompto.

~

And then: he finds Prompto. On the third night, shortly before midnight, he’s in the district where the bar is located. He’s heading for a school whose records from the year before include a Prompto Argentum – not that the school will be open now, but he’s running out of leads – when he chances to glance in a convenience store window, and sees: 

Prompto Argentum.

Prompto is standing behind the counter, wearing an ugly blue uniform and looking bored. There’s one customer: a middle-aged man browsing in the magazine section. And there’s Prompto. 

He stands still on the pavement, every nerve singing. He can’t smell Prompto from out here, but he can see him. He can see him, and suddenly the hunger roars up inside him. He remembers touching Prompto, how his skin crackled and tingled. He remembers kissing him. He remembers pressing his body against him.

He remembers Prompto crumpling to the floor of the alley. 

He closes his eyes. He knows what he’s doing is stupid. Ignis would think it’s stupid because it risks exposing him and the entire family to unwanted attention. But he thinks it’s stupid because he knows how easy it would be for him to kill Prompto. And he doesn’t want that. Even though part of him – far too large a part – wants to burst through the convenience store doors and press every part of his skin against Prompto, to take every that Prompto has and drown in it, he knows that then, that would be the end. He wants Prompto, but he wants Prompto to _last_. 

So. He waits. He watches. He breathes. He practices control.

And after two hours, he crosses the street, and goes into the convenience store.

~

The bell jingles when Noct pushes open the convenience store door. It’s late; there are no other customers. Prompto, standing behind the counter in his ugly uniform, looks up. And then he steps back, face turning pale. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

Noct twists his face into a seductive smile. Prompto smells so sweet – he can smell it from all the way across the store. 

“I came to see you,” he says, advancing on the counter. Prompto’s scent intensifies, but there’s a sour undertone to it. It’s a jarring note in a beautiful melody, and Noct pauses, frowning a little. 

Prompto, meanwhile, is fumbling in his pocket and pulling out his phone. 

“I’ll call the cops,” he says. “Don’t come any closer.” 

Noct stares at him. “What?” he says. That sour undertone in his scent is getting stronger, and he seems to be trying to unlock his phone, although apparently he’s not having much success. His hands are shaking, Noct realises. Why are his hands shaking?

“Wait,” Noct says. “Wait.” Even with his head spinning from the vibrancy of Prompto’s scent, he realises the urgency of the situation. He can’t let Prompto call the police. “Wait, Prompto. What did I do? Why are you frightened of me?” 

Prompto, still jabbing at his phone, looks up sharply, eyes wide and furious. “You – _roofied_ me,” he hisses. “What the fuck, dude? Get out of here, I’m serious. We’ve got cameras.” 

It’s then that Noct realises he’s miscalculated. He’s been so focused on finding Prompto, on how much he wants to see Prompto again, that it hasn’t really occurred to him to wonder whether Prompto wants to see him. It just – seemed obvious. His targets always want to see him again. He makes them desperate for him. It’s what he does; it’s what he _is_. 

But his first encounter with Prompto wasn’t – controlled. He didn’t have the chance to create the appropriate impression. Or, no, that isn’t true. He could have done so, could have used all his normal tricks, the right words, the right touches. But somehow, he lost control. And he left Prompto for dead. When Prompto woke up – how much did he remember? How did he experience it?

It hadn’t even occurred to him to wonder. 

“That’s it,” Prompto says. “I’m calling. Don’t come any – whoa!”

This last is the sound he makes when Noct darts across the room and grabs at Prompto’s wrist before he can punch the number into his phone. Noct’s heart is beating fast – a combination of the danger of the situation and Prompto’s intoxicating scent. When he touches Prompto’s skin and feels that spark, it’s all he can do not to groan. But he needs to stay focused. This is not a situation where he can afford to lose control.

“Hey,” Noct says. “Hey, please. No. I didn’t roofie you. Please. Let me explain.” 

“Get off me,” Prompto says. There’s a note of panic in his voice, and it’s there in his scent, too, sharp and unpleasant. Noct steps back, letting go of Prompto’s wrist and raising his hands. He keeps the counter between them. He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise--” 

Prompto seems frozen, one hand raised defensively. “Realise what?” he says. “That you can’t just – secretly drug someone and then come back and ask for more?” 

“I didn’t drug you,” Noct says. “I didn’t – I promise.” He’s thinking fast, trying to think of an explanation for what happened that Prompto will accept. He’s had three days, and he realises now he should have thought of an explanation before. It just – didn’t occur to him. Until a few days ago, he thought he had everything in his life under control, but everything about Prompto leaves him feeling like he’s missed a step. 

“Oh, huh, that’s weird,” Prompto says, his voice a mixture of anger and fear. “Because I remember being in the bar with you and – in the alley, and then I woke up in the hospital, sooooo – what? I just had a fainting fit?” 

“Hospital?” Noct says, schooling his face and voice to convey _surprised and worried_. It’s not something he’s normally called on to produce, and he hopes it comes out right. “Are you OK?” 

“ _No_ , I am _not_ –” Prompto starts, and then stops. “You really didn’t roofie me?” 

Noct shakes his head, keeping his eyes wide. “I wouldn’t even know where to get that stuff,” he says. 

Prompto swallows. His hands are still shaking. “Then – what happened?” he says. “How’d I end up in the hospital?” 

Noct shakes his head again, slowly this time. “Oh, man,” he says. “Oh, shit, Prompto. I thought – when we were in the alley, you were into it, and I – I was really into you, but – you seemed kind of out of it and I thought – I didn’t think it was OK, to take advantage of you. I thought – it seemed like you’d had a lot to drink. So I – I just left you there. You said you were going home, but – I didn’t want to be like a stalker, following you home, and you were really insistent that you didn’t need any help – shit. I should have walked you home. Shit, Prompto, I’m so sorry.” 

Prompto still looks frightened, but there’s some confusion creeping into his expression now. “I only had a couple beers,” he says. “You were there the whole time I was drinking.” 

“Yeah, but I thought you must have pre-gamed or something,” Noct says. “I really – I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry.” It doesn’t come naturally to him, apologising. But it’s all pretence; every word that comes out his mouth when talking to humans is pretence. “But – fuck, did someone else put something in your drink? How did they manage that? We were both there the whole time.” 

Slowly, Prompto shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. There’s doubt in his voice. That’s good, Noct can exploit that. “The hospital – they actually didn’t find any drugs in my bloodstream, but – you know, you hear about all this new shit that doesn’t leave a trace – I just thought– I just assumed–” He bites his lip. “I mean, it didn’t make lot of sense, because I couldn’t figure out why you’d want to – you know, rape me, when I would have willingly – uh–” 

Noct doesn’t have to feign shock and anger this time. It floods into him, burning and furious. “Someone raped you?” he says, hearing the deep note of rage in his own voice. The idea that someone would even _touch_ his prize – it’s unbearable. 

“No! Uh, no,” Prompto says. He’s lowered the phone, now, but he still looks pale and shaken. “I mean, I don’t think so. I – there’s no evidence that – anything like that happened. I just assumed – like, why would you roofie a guy if you didn’t take his stuff and didn’t rape him, right?” He scratches the back of his head. “I mean, I guess none of it really made a lot of sense...”

Noct forces his face into a sympathetic and worried expression, even though inside he’s still seething at the mere notion that someone might touch Prompto. “Uh – do you think maybe you should get checked out?” he says. “I mean, if you weren’t really drinking that night – you really seemed like you were pretty wasted.” 

Prompto chews his lip. He looks like he’s not sure what’s real any more. It’s good – Noct’s desperate, half-formed plan is working. He’s done with Prompto being scared and angry, though. He wants him to be happy and filled with desire. He wants that taste – the taste of Prompto’s joy, with no negative emotions marring it. 

“Hey,” he says. “Listen. I’m – I’m so sorry I was such a – I should never have left you on your own. Can I make it up to you? Maybe take you to dinner some time?” 

Prompto stares at him. He swallows, then looks from the phone in his hand to Noct. He’s not ready, Noct realises. He can’t move too fast, not like he did in the bar. The second time is going to be a lot more difficult. 

“You don’t have to decide now,” he says, raising his hands. “I get it – you only just got done thinking I was a – real piece of work. So...” He pulls an old receipt out of his pocket, checks it carefully for identifying details, and then writes his cellphone number on the back. The burner, not his regular cell. He steps forward, drops the receipt on the counter, and then pulls back. 

“Drop me a line when you decide,” he says. “And – if there’s anything I can do to help – I feel really bad...” 

“No, man,” Prompto says, waving his hand. There’s a waver of uncertainty in his voice. “Sorry I went off on you. Guess – it was just a misunderstanding.” 

Noct nods. “Yeah, the worst misunderstanding ever,” he says, trying for a sad smile. “But – you know, I had a really good time, before all that. If you hadn’t been – seemed so out of it–” He shrugs. “I’d really like to see you again.” 

Prompto just stares at him. Noct backs away until he reaches the door, then turns and goes through it. 

Once outside, he crosses back over the street to a place where he can see through the convenience store window. There’s a gnawing emptiness in his stomach that the brief taste of Prompto when he touched his wrist only made more painful. Not to mention, he still feels sick with fury at the idea that someone could have touched Prompto while he was lying in the alley. Even though Prompto thinks nobody did. Noct can’t let that happen. He can’t let anyone else touch Prompto.

He waits. Prompto’s shift is long and quiet. He checks his phone a lot. He seems a lot more alert to his surroundings than he did in the hours Noct watched him before their conversation. And finally, when dawn is just thinking about lightening the edge of the sky, Prompto reaches out and picks up the receipt, where it’s still lying on the counter. He looks at it for a second, then stuffs it in his pocket. 

Noct watches until the edge of the sun peeps over the horizon. Then he goes home. 

But he’ll be back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, I'm on a roll!

Noct watches the convenience store for three nights. He keeps himself well hidden and out of the range of any CCTV – and more importantly, makes sure that Prompto doesn’t see him. Prompto’s job is – uninteresting. He stands behind the counter. He serves customers. He restocks shelves. He sweeps. Noct wonders how he can stand it, to have such a mundane existence. But he’s human; human brains work on a very basic level. Perhaps he doesn’t even realise that his existence is mundane.

Prompto’s job is uninteresting, but Prompto is not. Noct feels consumed by his every movement. He reaches up to tuck his hair behind his ears, and Noct is fascinated by the length and shape of his fingers. He stares at his phone, and Noct sees the look of concentration on his face and imagines what it would be to be the object of that concentration. He smiles at customers, a genuine smile, not a fake one, and Noct wants to kill them – not even to eat them, just to kill them. But he doesn’t. Not at first, anyway.

On the fourth night, Ignis stops him when he’s on the way out of the house. 

“Noct,” he says, and takes him by the arm, looking him up and down. “When was the last time you ate?” 

He blinks. He can’t actually remember. He knows _what_ he ate – Prompto Argentum, Prompto Argentum – but the days and nights since he met Prompto have become a kind of blur. How long? 

Ignis stares at him, and he sees the answer in his eyes: too long. 

“Something’s troubling you,” Ignis says. “Where are you going every night, if you’re not eating?” 

“I’ll eat,” he says. He pulls his arm away. “You worry too much.” 

Ignis reaches out and grips his arm again. “Noct,” he says. “Tonight. Promise me you’ll eat tonight.” 

He can’t push it with Prompto now – it’s too soon. But the idea of touching anyone else makes him feel – faintly nauseated. 

“Noctis,” Ignis says.

“I promise,” Noct says. 

“And you’ll be careful?” Ignis asks. 

“Chill out, Specs,” Noctis says, pulling his arm away again. “I know how to handle myself.” 

Ignis doesn’t say anything else.

~

He doesn’t go to a bar, or an alley, or anywhere where he might find an easy meal. He goes to the place opposite Prompto’s convenience store where he’s spent the last four nights. He knows he needs to eat – now that Ignis has drawn his attention to it, he can feel it, a pain that must have been there for some days but which he’s barely noticed. But he has other things he needs to do more. Like make sure that Prompto doesn’t somehow disappear. He doesn’t want to have to go looking for him again. 

It’s a long night. Prompto stands behind the counter. He serves customers. He restocks shelves. He sweeps. And Noct doesn’t eat. He just watches. He promised Ignis. But – he can go to the bar later. Except that _later_ becomes three a.m., then four a.m., and then he knows it’s going to be difficult to find a bar that’s open and crowded enough for him to go unnoticed. And the sun will rise, and Ignis will look at him and wonder what he’s been doing. Where he’s been going.

What would Ignis do, if he knew about Prompto? If he knew what a precious treasure Noct has found? 

He wouldn’t understand. And so Noct won’t tell him. 

And then: a customer, drunk and belligerent, leaning over the counter and jabbing a finger at Prompto. It’s a middle-aged man, overweight and unshaven. Prompto is stepping back, his hands raised, conciliatory. The conversation is soundless, from the other side of the street. But the customer is leaning, leaning into Prompto’s space. Jabbing his finger. Noct finds that his fists are clenched at his sides. That he’s taken a step out of the shadow that conceals him, without even meaning to. That man – how dare he. How dare he.

But Noct doesn’t cross the street and go to help Prompto. Prompto, somehow, helps himself. He talks, hands raised, a look of contrition on his face. He smiles. He keeps his hands open and raised. And the man stops jabbing his finger. He stops leaning into Prompto’s face. He even buys something. And then he leaves. Prompto’s shoulders slump. He rubs a hand across his eyes. He looks tired. 

Noct doesn’t see what Prompto does after that. He’s busy: following the man with the jabbing finger. Usually, he’s picky. He can afford to be: he doesn’t have any trouble finding what he wants. This man – he would never pick this man. But now he’s following him. He stays in the shadows as much as possible. And eventually, the man turns down an unlighted alleyway. Noct is across the street in an instant. He catches up, silent. Reaches out and puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Excuse me?” 

The man turns. Noct smiles.

“Hi,” he says.

~

When Noct was a kid, he didn’t really know the best way to treat a human so that eating was a pleasant experience. It made sense: he didn’t know much about anything, then, except that he was hungry all the time and Ignis and his dad had rules about when and how he could eat. He was hungry all the time, but eating wasn’t something he enjoyed doing, because humans always tasted – sour, or bitter, or just rotten. 

Later, when he got older and wasn’t hungry so often, he learned that what he tasted back then was the bad emotions: mostly fear, sometimes anger, anxiety, depression. He learned, as his body changed, that humans tasted much more pleasant if they were filled with good emotions: lust, pleasure, satisfaction. So, instead of chasing, instead of pouncing and taking as much as he could, as fast as he could, with no care for how the human felt, he changed his approach. He learned how to make humans feel good. He learned how to take what he needed from them without them realising he was doing it and becoming afraid. He learned how to restrain himself and how to moderate his desires, how not to kill – at least not immediately. He was no longer just an endless hunger; now he was a hunter. 

Until Prompto. Prompto changed things. Firstly, by making him lose all his restraint. Secondly, by leading him to this: this alleyway, this drunken idiot who would have tasted unpleasant even if filled with the best emotions, but who now was brimming with ugly fury. Noct needs to eat, but this is not what he would choose, if not for Prompto.

If not for Prompto.

“What do you wa–” the man begins. But he never finishes. Noct returns to older skills, less subtle, crude and childish. He pounces. The man is much larger than he is, but that doesn’t matter. In a moment, he’s on the ground, and Noct is on top of him, ripping off his jacket, tearing the back of his shirt, exposing his skin. He feels a ripple of revulsion. And then he presses his face to the man’s neck, his hands and arms to the man’s back, skin against skin. He makes no effort to make it painless. He simply drags the man’s energy from his body, through every pore. 

It tastes disgusting.

The man makes a noise – tries to speak, to scream. Noct doesn’t care. He’s aware that he should; that for the second time in only a few days he’s doing exactly what he’s been trained and told and exhorted never to do. But he doesn’t care. Ignis told him to eat, and now he’s eating. 

Eating a whole human all at once has never been a good idea. It always leaves him feeling bloated, and since he grew out of his childish inability to restrain himself, he’s avoided it for reasons other than the obvious issues of trying to avoid attention. Eating a whole human all at once when that human is also suffused with all the worst emotions is – highly unpleasant. 

Noct doesn’t care. He feels it as the struggles of the man beneath him grow weaker, and then stop. He feels it as the heart beating in that idiotic chest falters. He doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left to eat. 

Then he stands. He spits. His whole body feels foul – sluggish and grimy. He stirs the body with his foot. Ignis would be horrified. He knows he should feel something – guilt, concern, embarrassment. But he remembers the man jabbing his fingers into Prompto’s face, leaning over the counter with bulging, angry eyes. He doesn’t feel guilty. He feels satisfied.

He considers what to do next. Leave him here? If he hadn’t torn the shirt, maybe. With no defensive wounds, his attacks are usually interpreted as unexpected heart failure. But he tore the shirt, and he knocked the man down. No doubt there are scratches on his face and hands from his thrashing on the ground. 

Not very smart, Noctis. But satisfying. 

Call Ignis? He considers the possibility. But the convenience store where Prompto works is only a block away. He doesn’t want Ignis to know about Prompto. It’s too big a risk. Even though he can’t think of any way that Ignis would find out, it’s Ignis. Ignis always knows more than he should. Sometimes it’s very useful. But today, it means he can’t call Ignis.

So, then, what?

He pulls out his phone. He stares at it for a moment. Then he dials Gladio. 

~

Gladio, when he arrives, is not impressed.

“You killed the guy?” he says, squatting and feeling for the man’s pulse. “You couldn’t control yourself? He’s not even hot.” 

“It wasn’t about that,” Noct says. He feels greasy and bloated, and he just wants Gladio to get rid of the body so he can forget this guy ever existed. 

“Yeah?” Gladio looks up at him and raises his eyebrows. “What was it about?” 

He looks away. “Just – pissed me off, is all.”

Gladio’s in front of him before he realises he’s moved, looming over him and frowning. “You’re acting pretty weird lately,” he says. “Gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on with you?” 

Noct glares at him. “Nothing’s going on,” he says. “You gonna help me, or what?” 

Gladio stares at him for a few seconds more. Then he turns at looks at the body. “I’m not gonna eat that,” he says. “Guy looks like he never came near a vegetable in his life.” He frowns in thought. “The angels probably won’t mind.” 

“Can you get him there?” Noct asks. 

Gladio looks back at him and shrugs. “You know Iggy’s gonna be pissed, right?” 

“Don’t–” Noct starts. Then he closes his mouth. He’s said too much. Maybe. If Gladio’s in one of his asshole moods, even just that one word’ll be enough to have him calling Ignis right now.

Gladio doesn’t call Ignis, though. He just stands there, looking at him, eyes glowing a quiet yellow. 

“Seriously,” he says, after an uncomfortable silence. “You in trouble, or something? You’d tell me, right? Because this,” he gestures at the body, “this isn’t you. Killing humans just because they piss you off? Since when?” 

Someone walks past the end of the alley. They don’t look in – they’re walking fast, head down, hands in pockets – but Noct jerks his head at Gladio.

“You want to be the one to explain it to Ignis if we get caught?” he says.

“If _you_ get caught,” Gladio mutters. But he bends, scoops up the body like it weighs nothing. “We’re not done,” he says over his shoulder. Then he jumps, and in a couple of bounds he’s on the rooftop of the neighbouring building, body a bulky shadow over one shoulder. Noct watches him disappear into the night. Then he turns back, inspects the floor of the alley for any signs that might arouse suspicion. There’s nothing – just a few scuff marks. 

_You in trouble?_ That’s what Gladio asked. Because he doesn’t usually do this. Humans piss him off all the time, but he just – avoids them, unless they’re interesting enough to eat. 

Is he in trouble?

Something’s not right. Or – something’s not _normal_. He’s never felt the way he does now. Not the greasy feeling from eating the dead guy, but the feeling underneath that. Like something’s going to happen. Like something’s _got_ to happen. Like he needs something, more than just to sate his hunger. Something’s changed. But is it trouble? Is Prompto a problem?

Ignis would think so. Maybe Gladio would, too. Maybe they would be right. Maybe.

He goes back to the convenience store. Prompto’s not visible. He waits and wonders. 

Then Prompto appears from the back of the store. He looks tired. He looks – beautiful. Noct can almost see the clear, sweet energy pulsing under his skin. He can remember how it felt, can remember it even through the slight nausea brought on by eating the man in the alley. 

Prompto’s not a problem. The man who jabbed his finger in Prompto’s face was a problem. But now that problem’s dealt with. 

Noct settles down to watch.

~

He’s asleep when the text comes through. It’s late afternoon, the sun sinking towards the horizon somewhere outside the shuttered windows of the Family Seat. He gropes for his phone, fully prepared to be pissed at whoever it is texting him at this hour.

It’s an unknown number. _Hey dude just wanted to say sorry for going off on u the other day. Guess I jumped to conclusions_

He’s still reading it when another text comes through: _This is Prompto btw_

He stares at the text. Then he adds Prompto to his contacts. He types in the full name: Prompto Argentum. Prompto. Prompto texted him.

He goes back to the texts. Prompto texted him. He needs to make sure he gets this right. He might not get another chance. He thinks. He writes out a text. Deletes it. Writes out another. He knows how to do this – how to seduce people. It’s what he does. But somehow, he’s not sure.

_Not a problem_ , he writes at last. _Id have thought the same thing. Im really sorry I didnt walk you home_

Then: nothing. He counts the seconds. He imagines Prompto sitting in the tiny one-room apartment he’s tracked him to, looking at his phone. Thinking – what? Thinking about Noct. Should he send another text? Or should he wait?

His phone buzzes. _Nah not ur fault dude. U must have thought I was such a freak_

He swallows. His throat is dry. Now. He can make his move now. 

_Buy you a drink to make up for it?_

He stares at the text for twenty seconds before he presses send. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how Prompto will respond.

Nothing.

He counts. He listens to his heart beating. He swallows against the dryness in his throat.

Nothing.

Fuck. He blew it. He blew his chance. Feverishly, he types out another message. 

_Somewhere well lit and public! Am not a serial killer, btw._

He presses send. 

He waits.

His phone buzzes.

_Haha yea I know. OK – Tuesday night?_

It’s Sunday. Two days. He can wait two days. 

_It’s a date_ , he types. He receives a smiling emoji in return. He stares at it, imagining Prompto smiling. It’s a date. 

It’s a date. 

~

It takes a long time for Tuesday night to arrive. Two long nights watching Prompto in the convenience store and imagining what it’ll be like when he can stand close enough to smell the energy under his skin; two long days trying to sleep, trying to plan, and waiting, waiting. 

And then: Tuesday night. 

He stands in front of the mirror, staring at his hair. It’s always perfect. But today it just – doesn’t look right. 

“Are you going out?” Ignis asks, startling him. Noct’s asked him a hundred times to move less quietly, but he doesn’t seem capable of it. 

“Yeah,” Noct says. “Got a date.” 

Ignis straightens up. “Oh, excellent,” he says. “I was beginning to worry.” 

He swipes at his hair. “I told you, Specs, you don’t need to worry about me. Everything’s fine.” 

Ignis coughs. “Apparently so,” he says. He hovers for a moment. “Be careful, Noct.” 

“Always am,” Noct says. He doesn’t even think about it, because it’s what he always says to Ignis at this point in their conversations. He doesn’t think about the fact that it’s not really true any more. It doesn’t matter. What matters is his hair. He needs to make sure it’s perfect.

~

Two hours later, he’s sitting in the corner of a late-night ice-cream parlour when Prompto walks in the door. Usually, Noct’s fashionably late, but today he’s been there for forty-five minutes already. He’s never had a date in an ice-cream parlour before, but Prompto suggested it and he was willing to agree to anything to make sure he kept Prompto on the hook. 

He half-rises to his feet, and Prompto sees him and smiles, raising his hand. The smile has his heart speeding up from all the way across the room. He settles back in his seat, suppressing his urge to go and meet Prompto and instead forcing his body into a casual, languid posture. He may never have seduced someone in an ice-cream parlour before, but he sees no reason why it should be different from anywhere else.

“Dude,” Prompto says, arriving at the table, alight with smiles. “I’m not late, am I? I had this – thing with my shower, and then my landlord showed up – uh, anyway, there’s this rent thing – and I ran all the way here so I probably smell kinda bad – oh, shit, I definitely promised myself I wasn’t going to tell you that...” 

He reaches out and grabs Prompto’s wrist. He wears a leather wristband, but the edges of Noct’s palm press against warm, bare skin, and even through that minor contact, he feels the bright sparkling of Prompto. Most humans need to be coaxed to give up their energy – or forced, like the man in the alley – but Prompto’s is leaking from his skin without any effort on Noct’s part. He closes his eyes, feels the brightness glowing against his hand, and breathes in Prompto’s sweet scent.

“You smell delicious,” he says, putting a hint of a growl into his voice. 

When he opens his eyes again, he sees that Prompto is staring at him, mouth slightly open. He smiles – he goes for _rakish_ , since that generally has a high success rate with ingenues. Prompto’s eyes bulge a little.

“Uh, yeah,” Prompto says, stuttering a little. “Th- Thanks. You, uh – smell good too?” Then he closes his eyes, screwing them up tight. “Uh, I mean – do you want an ice-cream? They’re – they taste super good.” 

It’s the perfect opening. He turns Prompto’s hand over and presses a kiss to his palm, opening his mouth slightly and touching the tip of his tongue to the warm skin. The burst of light and sweetness in his mouth is just as beautiful as he remembers. But – it’s also disorienting. He raises his head from Prompto’s hand, opens his mouth to deliver the line that he planned, and – can’t remember it. 

He stares at Prompto. Prompto stares at him. There’s silence.

Then Prompto pulls his hand out of his grasp. “Uh, I’ll–” he says, voice unattractively squeaky. And he turns sharply and half runs across the room to the counter. 

Noct watches him go. _You’re what I really want to taste_. That would have done it. Or _You taste super good_. Or _I already have the tastiest thing in the room right here_. Even a novice could have managed, and Noct is no novice. 

Shit. What’s his problem?

His problem: his head is buzzing. His senses are full of sweetness: his mouth, his tongue, his lungs. He still feels the tingling of Prompto’s skin imprinted on his hand. He wants to keep that sensation, wants to increase it, to take in as much of Prompto as he can. But he’s finding it difficult to think the way that he normally does. Generally, his own desire is largely suppressed until he reaches the consummation stage. The human loses control of himself; Noct does not. He can’t – not if he’s to achieve his goals. And for the most part, he doesn’t find it difficult. Humans – some humans – are attractive, but much more so when they’re naked and open and vulnerable. Most humans take work to get to that stage. 

Prompto is clothed in some kind of – strange hybrid of a leather waistcoat and a schoolgirl’s skirt. But he might as well be naked. And Noct – feels strangely naked, too. 

“I, uh, got you triple chocolate,” Prompto says, coming back to the table with two sundaes. “I didn’t know what you wanted, but the triple chocolate here is amazing, and everyone likes chocolate, right? I mean, you do, right?” 

Noct opens his mouth to say something suave about what he _likes_ , but instead, he hears himself say, “Yeah. Chocolate’s good.” Like he’s talking to Ignis or Gladio, not a human. 

Prompto smiles, and Noct suddenly doesn’t care about his own gaucheness. He takes the sundae and the spoon, and watches Prompto as he eats and talks, somehow both at the same time. He’s messy and animated, gesturing with his spoon and dropping globs of cream on the table. Noct has been watching Prompto for almost a week, but seeing him up close again, breathing him in, listening without listening to the babbling stream of words – he feels as though his chest is expanding. And – he feels hungry. So hungry. 

“Noct?” Prompto says. “You don’t like the ice-cream?”

He looks at his sundae. It’s transformed into a glass of sludgy chocolate mush. Prompto’s is gone, only the cherry left. As he watches, Prompto pulls the cherry from the stalk with his teeth, and Noct’s stomach turns entirely over with hunger. 

“You should have said, dude,” Prompto says around a mouthful of cherry. “Oh, shit, you’re not lactose intolerant, are you?” 

“I’m – I’m Prompto-tolerant,” Noct says, trying for a purring tone.

Prompto stares at him. “Huh?” he says. 

Noct swallows. Then he stands up. “Let’s – go somewhere else,” he says. 

“Huh?” Prompto says again, then, “Oh – yeah, sure. Sorry, dude, you really should have said.” 

“No, it’s not the ice-cream,” Noct says. He feels suddenly out of his depth, the conversation out of his control. How did this happen? “I just–” He takes a deep breath, then twists his face into the rakish smile again. “Want to get you on your own.” 

Prompto flushes. “Oh – uh, yeah,” he says, shooting to his feet. “Yeah, that’s – cool. Let’s – do that.” 

It’s strange, Noct thinks as he leads the way out of the ice-cream parlour. He made an effort to make sure Prompto felt safe, that he didn’t frighten him away by offering to meet him somewhere dark or lonely. But Prompto seems to have forgotten all about his earlier fear of Noct. He follows Noct out into the street without any hesitation, and seems to have no instinct for staying in the brightly-lit, crowded parts of the city. At first, Noct stays to the well-lit streets himself, to make sure Prompto doesn’t get spooked. But gradually, he pushes his luck. He turns into smaller, darker streets. He crosses small parks. And Prompto walks beside him, chattering away, with no apparent fear. Is it an act? It seems genuine, but also – unexpected. On the other hand, Noct’s head and chest and body are so full of Prompto, the taste of him, the smell, the sound, that it’s hard for him to think clearly. All he wants is to get Prompto on his own.

At last, they find themselves in a park, and Noct can’t wait any longer. The hourly hotel that he’s been aiming for is too far away – Prompto’s ice-cream parlour is in a nice neighbourhood, nowhere near Noct’s usual haunts or Prompto’s own apartment – and he needs – he needs Prompto. So he stops walking and gestures at a bench, no doubt barely visible to Prompto’s human eyes in the darkness. 

“Want to sit down for a while?” he asks.

The flow of Prompto’s words is briefly halted. “Sure,” he says, sounding breathless. He sits gracelessly, shivering a little. Noct sits next to him.

“Are you cold?” he asks. He moves closer, sliding along the bench until his thigh is pressed against Prompto’s.

“Uh,” Prompto says, and then, “No, I’m–” Then he breathes in sharply as Noct puts an arm around his shoulders. Noct breathes in, too. He breathes in the night air, heavy with Prompto’s sweet scent. He feels Prompto’s energy crackling against his palm, Prompto’s bare shoulder against his forearm. He pulls Prompto closer, trying to get more of his skin in contact with Prompto’s and he–

–he remembers. He remembers Prompto in the alleyway, he remembers sliding his hand up Prompto’s shirt, pressing his face into Prompto’s neck, and he remembers Prompto slumping in his arms, chalk-white.

He jerks, pulling back his arm. The loss of that contact, the silvery sweet dance of energy on his skin, is almost painful. But worse is Prompto’s reaction. He starts, shifts away slightly, and the expression on his face is one of – pain and embarrassment.

“Uh, shit, sorry,” Prompto says. “Didn’t mean to – lean on you there, bud.” 

He stares at Prompto in the darkness. He’s met a great many humans in his life, though few of those he’s spent this much time with are still breathing. He’s studied human behaviour, as a means to an end, as a necessity for his continued survival. And yet, here Prompto is, apologising for Noct’s behaviour as if it was somehow his own fault. Noct knows a lot about human behaviour, but that – he wouldn’t have predicted that. 

And now he has to fix it. But Prompto is – strange. Noct feels increasingly as though he doesn’t have the right tools to plan the best strategy for dealing with Prompto. 

“No,” he says. “I’m sorry. Had a–” He rolls his shoulders, playing for time. “Shiver run down my spine, you know? Like someone walking on my grave. Sorry.” 

“Oh,” Prompto says. “Yeah, I kinda – got the shivers, too.” 

If this was someone else, Noct would take that opportunity to pull him close again. To move forward in this dance. But–

But.

He’s been focussed, for so many days now, on how to bring Prompto back into his orbit. And now he has him, he realises he’s not even spared a thought for the problem that threw Prompto out of his orbit in the first place. The problem that almost killed Prompto last time they were together. The thought of doing it again, of leaving Prompto close to death, perhaps even pushing it too far this time – it makes his heart jump in his chest. He needs Prompto alive. All that brightness under his skin – he needs that to stay bright, to glow and crackle for years and centuries and millennia.

And if he touches him–

He sits still, thinking fast. There’s a gap between him and Prompto now. He wants to close it. But the image of Prompto’s white face, eyes closed, mouth slack, reappears again and again in his mind. How can he take what he wants without taking too much? 

Restraint. It’s second nature – it should be second nature. In a normal situation, he can feed on a human on multiple occasions, sometimes for weeks, before the human’s strength finally fails. Taking everything at once is too much, anyway. Restraint is straightforward. It’s easy. 

He remembers the power of Prompto’s lips against his, how fast the energy flowed, how there was never a sense of _too much_ , only _more, more, give me everything_. And he remembers how quickly Prompto faded. There, in the alley, both of them still mostly clothed. It all happened so quickly. 

So: restraint. But he’ll need to take great care. The hunger is thrumming through his body, and he feels the same sense of wild recklessness that overtook him in the bar, in the alley. His body won’t restrain itself, not this time. He needs to stay in control. 

“Uh, so–” Prompto says, shifting a little further away on the bench. “Did I really not – do anything wrong? Because you’re kinda – blue-screening there, dude.” 

He turns to look at Prompto. “I’m overwhelmed by how hot you are,” he says. “It’s a problem.” 

Prompto blinks at him, flushing in the darkness. “Uh, wow,” he says. “Really?” 

He leans forward, then, takes Prompto’s chin in his hand and brushes his lips across Prompto’s. The burst of sweetness, in his fingertips, in his lips, is sublime. The hunger roars to life in his belly. He thrusts it down and leans back, licking his lips. Restraint. Restraint is the key. 

Prompto is leaning forward, eyes closed, lips slightly open. After a second or two, he opens one eye.

“You, uh,” he says. “You don’t have to stop. I mean – unless you want to.” 

He’s restrained. He’s in control. He’s–

–lunging forward, grabbing Prompto’s face in both hands, pressing his lips against Prompto’s. Prompto makes a quiet noise of surprise, and then starts kissing back with almost equal ferocity, his mouth opening further, his hands running through Noct’s hair. And there’s that change, that intensification of Prompto’s scent that happened before, in the alleyway. Noct moans, incapable of suppressing it even if he’d wanted to. His head is full of stars, bursting behind his eyes. His body is singing with silver and gold light. He can’t get close enough, kissing is no good, he needs more. He pulls his mouth away from Prompto’s and pulls him in close, pressing Prompto’s face against his neck, pressing his palm flat against the back of Prompto’s head. Prompto responds by opening his mouth and licking Noct’s neck, and Noct sees nothing but sheets of golden light, rippling in front of his eyes. 

And then he sees something else: Prompto’s face, chalk white, eyes closed, mouth slack. It’s like being suddenly immersed in cold water, and before he even knows he’s doing it he’s pulled back from Prompto, pushing him away, panting heavily. 

Prompto stares at him. He’s breathing hard, too, his face flushed, his hair in disarray. He looks even more beautiful like this. But there’s an expression on his face that Noct doesn’t like. He doesn’t look satisfied. He looks worried. And there’s a change in his scent, too – a bitter note threaded through the sweetness.

“What?” Prompto whispers. “Why’d you stop?” 

He swallows. His mouth is still full of the taste of Prompto. “I just want to – take things slowly,” he says. He’s not sure he’s ever said that combination of words before. It sounds unconvincing even in his own ears.

“Huh?” Prompto says. “Why?” 

He thinks fast. Tries to think fast. It’s hard, when his mind is singing with light and splendour. “After – what happened before,” he says. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was a – creep.”

“Dude,” Prompto says. He sounds astonished. “But you explained that, right? I really don’t need to go slow. I mean, really. Let’s – let’s go fast.” 

Then Prompto reaches out, and Noct’s resolve starts to crack. He grabs Prompto’s hand before it can make contact with his face, and the jolt of energy is startling. If it was leaking from Prompto before, now it’s gushing from him, he’s projecting himself so eagerly outwards into the world. Into Noct. And Noct – Noct’s willpower isn’t sufficient, not to resist such an invitation. He kisses Prompto’s palm, his fingertips, sucking each one slightly into his mouth. Prompto whimpers, and Noct kisses his wrist, up the inside of his arm, opening his mouth a little each time and brushing the tip of his tongue against Prompto’s skin. Prompto is gratifyingly responsive, moaning and shivering, and Noct feels a sense of power that’s unrelated to the golden energy that flows from Prompto’s skin. He reaches Prompto’s bare shoulder, kisses it, and then presses his lips and teeth to the crook of Prompto’s neck. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Prompto whispers. His hand is on the back of Noct’s head, the other grasping at his shoulder, his arm, his chest, as if searching for a purchase. Noct bites deeper into Prompto’s neck and reaches for Prompto’s crotch, pressing his palm down over the bulge in Prompto’s pants. 

“Ah!” Prompto says. “Oh fuck wow oh shit–” His hips rise, pressing his erection up into Noct’s hand, and Noct responds, grinding his palm down, imagining with a rush of anticipation what this would be like if Prompto’s pants weren’t in the way. 

And then Prompto sways sideways a little. He catches himself on Noct, grabbing at his shoulder. And Noct sees, again, that vision of Prompto’s white face, all the light gone. He pulls back – too sharply, causing Prompto to lose his grip and almost overbalance. He grabs at Prompto’s shoulders, then transfers his grip, looking to hold onto some part of Prompto that isn’t bare skin, and cursing the sleeveless outfit for providing so little cover.

“You OK?” he says. “Prompto?” 

Prompto blinks at him, raising a hand to his forehead. “Uh – yeah,” he says. “Just – got kind of a headrush, there. Must be, you know – blood flow issues.” He smiles, but it’s a slow smile, dazed-looking. Is it Noct’s imagination, or is there less colour in his face?

Prompto reaches out for him, and Noct jerks back, his fear suddenly, briefly, stronger than his desire. “Wait–” he says, and Prompto pauses, hand half-outstretched, blinking slowly. 

“What?” he says. “Aren’t we gonna, um – uh, bang?” 

The question, blunt and stumbling as it is, ignites the hunger again in Noct’s belly. But the fear isn’t gone. The slight slur to Prompto’s words, the dazed look on his face, the sluggishness of his movements – no. Noct can’t take any more from him, not tonight. It’s not safe. Prompto is still glowing with life, with bright, perfect fire. And Noct needs for him to stay that way, even if it means denying himself. 

“Don’t you want to?” Prompto asks. His voice has a plaintive note, like a child. “What’d I do wrong?” 

“No, sh,” Noct says. He’s dealt with plenty of humans suffering from the effects of his feeding. The responses vary widely, depending both on the person and the circumstances. “I do want to. Here, let me–” 

He pushes Prompto – hand in the centre of his chest, so no part of him comes into contact with Prompto’s skin – until Prompto leans back on the bench. Then he considers him. He knows how to give pleasure to humans – knows a hundred different ways. But he’s never had to consider this: how to give pleasure without taking anything for himself. It’s never even occurred to him to do such a thing. The whole purpose of the pleasure he gives is to enhance the taste, the quality, the flow of energy, to coax the human into giving him more of what he wants. But now–

But now. It’s part of the process: to develop his relationship with Prompto. To secure his supply. The process usually requires him to smile, to seduce, to feign interest. It’s never required this of him before, but he took so much from Prompto, so quickly. And so now this. 

“Noct,” Prompto whispers. He raises his finger and presses it to Prompto’s lips, following it with the lightest kiss. He allows himself one more kiss – to Prompto’s shoulder, the taste of him more silver than gold now, sweet and rich on his tongue – and then he slips from the bench and kneels on the ground. He pushes open Prompto’s knees – clothed, so safe – and slips in between them. He unbuckles Prompto’s belt, unzips his fly. He looks up at Prompto, who’s staring down at him, mouth hanging slightly open. Even like this, with no part of their bodies touching, he can feel Prompto. He feels as though Prompto is all around him, as though there’s no difference between himself and Prompto, the air between them nothing but a continuation of their bodies. 

He might be kind of high. 

Prompto’s mouth moves as though he’s about to speak, and Noct lowers his head and presses his own mouth to the line of Prompto’s cock, bulging against his boxers. 

Prompto makes a strangled noise, and Noct smiles against his cock, opening his mouth and breathing through the cotton to the skin below. He mouths along Prompto’s cock, bringing one hand up to tease at his balls through the fabric. Then he pulls away and wraps his hand around Prompto, silently grateful for the boxers that have enough extra fabric to allow him to do so. He squeezes gently and dips his head, coming up from underneath to mouth at Prompto’s balls.

“Ah,” Prompto says, throwing his head back and, spreading his legs wider. “Ah, fuck!” 

Then Noct opens his mouth as wide as he can and breathes around Prompto’s balls, his hand squeezing and twisting slightly around Prompto’s cock, and Prompto jerks and comes, silent but for a rough exhalation. Noct keeps breathing and squeezing in a slowing rhythm until all the tension leaves Prompto’s body and he slumps back on the bench. 

And there it is. A successful stratagem. Noct feels – strangely satisfied, even though all of this was a means, not an end. He’s no doubt convinced Prompto of his interest, without making the same mistake he did during their first meeting. He’s set up a firm foundation for future meetings. And after all, even if some part of him – a very large part – still desires nothing more than to take all of Prompto into himself, what he has taken tonight has been quite sufficient to leave him feeling – extraordinary. So: many reasons to be satisfied. Many things that can explain his satisfaction. Nothing that requires any further reflection.

“Dude,” Prompto mumbles, putting a hand on Noct’s head. The hand is pulsing with energy, but it’s something new now – deeper, slower, a vivid, rich gold rather than the blinding brightness of before. “That was awesome.” 

He lays his head down on Prompto’s thigh, feeling the pulsing even through the fabric of his jeans. He shifts so that he’s seated on the ground. He feels like he’s flying, like he wants to run a thousand miles, like he could walk on water. At the same time, he thinks he would be happy to stay here, sitting on the ground between Prompto’s legs, for the rest of his life. 

“Lemme – help y’out,” Prompto says, making to move. Noct grabs his leg and squeezes. 

“No,” he says, putting a note of command into his voice. “I don’t need help. I’ve got what I need, right here.” 

“Oh,” Prompto says. He sounds half asleep. Then he seems to rouse himself. “Came in my – uh, in my pants.” 

Noct noses at Prompto’s crotch. “Yeah,” he says. “Think you did.” 

Prompto makes a quiet noise that’s probably disgust. Then the hand on Noct’s head gets suddenly heavier, and the pulse of Prompto’s energy slows into sleep. Noct closes his own eyes and spends a few moments savouring the quiet, heavy glow against his scalp. Then, forcing down his instincts, he picks up Prompto’s hand and lays it down on the bench. The loss of contact is genuinely painful, but there are no choices here: even in sleep, Prompto gives himself up, and if their last encounter is anything to go by, he could easily give everything of himself before Noct even realised it was happening. 

Noct lays his head back down on Prompto’s thigh. He feels filled with light, with glory. He feels as though he’s floating a few inches above the ground. And around him, in the air all around him and in the body that’s separated from him by only a layer of fabric, there’s Prompto. 

Noct closes his eyes. He can’t stay here forever. But for a few hours – for a few hours. And they won’t be the only hours. He’s laid the groundwork. Prompto is hardly difficult prey. He won’t lose him again, now.

“See, Ignis?” he murmurs, breathing in Prompto’s sleepy scent. “I was careful.”


End file.
